by Ben Galley
‘Spooked, she was. Must be the noise of the gate!’ called the man to his crew, crawling back to his spot.
As the blunt nose of the narrowboat slipped under the bridge and into the town, Farden kept one eye on the guards standing on the bank and one on the hand resting on the crate in front of him. The guards, surly and stony-faced, waved the boat through and tipped their helmets to its crew. They looked as miserable as the ox. Their leather and iron armour was dripping wet. The rain played little rhythmic ditties on their metal helmets and shields.
As the rest of the boat followed its nose and slid under the bridge, the water gate slowly began to lower. The winch that held its chains clanked and squeaked and moaned. Farden used the noisy opportunity to finally vomit down the side of his crate. His stomach felt as though it were having a fist-fight with the rest of his organs. He heaved and he retched until there was nothing left to spit. Farden slumped to the wet deck and took a deep breath, feeling his throat burn. Damn that god, he thought. And damn that fruit too.
The effects of the mistfrond lasted just long enough for the narrowboat to creep past the gate and get half a mile into town. Farden threw up twice more before the fruit was done with him. His hands began to materialise out of their wraithlike haze. He was still a faint shadow in the rain, but a shadow that was quickly growing skin, bone, clothes, and colour. Farden had to jump now, or risk reappearing in the middle of the street.
As the narrowboat crept past another that was moored beside a ladder, Farden bade the ox a swift pat farewell and leapt the murky, watery gap between the two boats. He landed with a soft thud, this time on his feet. Trusting the downpour to hide him, Farden scurried up the wooden ladder and onto the street, unseen boots crunching on the gravel. The street was empty but for a few brave souls hurrying back and forth in their cloaks and hoods. Lanterns had been put out to spare the torches, and the quiet street was bathed in a wet, lemon glow. Farden wasted no time in admiring it. He sprinted into the nearest alley he could find and caught his breath between the buildings. The noises of a nearby inn, maybe a cathouse, could be heard above him. The din spilt out of cracked windows.
The mage put his head against the cold brick of the building. The nausea was slowly dying away, and with it the mistfrond’s effects. Slowly but surely, in the dripping darkness of the alley, the mage’s limbs began to reappear out of their misty haze. Within minutes, he was solid again.
‘Onward,’ Farden whispered to himself.
No sooner had he taken a step forward, did he hear a very familiar sound indeed.
Hur-hur-hur-hur… came the laugh, echoing down the alleyway.
Farden froze.
Fat Forluss.
Footsteps followed in the laugh’s wake. Farden tugged his hood down and stepped back into the street. He jogged a short distance, and then turned to watch Forluss and a trio of his friends emerge from the very alleyway Farden had hid in. The mage shook his head. It was a lucky escape for him. Not so lucky for Forluss.
Farden’s eyes burnt into the obese lump as he swaggered along the gravel road. Forluss stared at everybody he passed, challenging them, daring them to get in his way. They knew better than to try.
While Farden kept his head down and his hood low, Forluss led his friends to a nearby building that sat on the edge of a curve in the canal. It had a rain-washed and sun-faded sign hanging from a pole. The Piebald Skald, it said, with a crude painting of a man with a black and white face for good measure. Forluss went in, closely followed by the others. Farden narrowed his eyes, and ran his finger along the blunt side of his longest knife. It was time.
‘What’s in yer hand, Forluss?’ demanded an old voice.
Forluss looked up from his fistful of dog-eared cards, cheap cuts of parchment, coloured and varnished. ‘Nothing for you, Isfridder. Keep your old nose out of it.’
‘Well, you going to play, or not?’ asked another.
Forluss glared at the other who had spoken. ‘Shut up and wait your turn. I didn’t bring you ‘ere to moan.’
The table fell quiet and sipped their drinks while Forluss tried his hardest to figure out what he held, if anything. He flicked his cards with a greasy fingernail and scowled at their pictures for the hundredth time. Forluss sniffed, and took a thoughtful sip of his foaming mug of brimlugger, a dubious local concoction of pickled wine and ale. ‘Fine,’ he relented. He picked out four of his cards and slammed them on the wooden table. ‘Two silver ravens, a half-moon, and an eight.’
The old man called Isfridder shook his head. ‘That’s a seven, Forluss.’
Fat Forluss shook his head. His three friends looked on with smirking faces. ‘No it ain’t. Look there, that’s an eight.’
Isfridder tapped a gnarled old finger on the card, counting the tally-marks. ‘No, that’s a hair stuck in the varnish. What are you, stupid, as well as fat?’
Forluss stood up, shoving the table with his belly. ‘You trying to cheat me, old man?’
This was a tense moment. Forluss may not have had The Fiend with him tonight, but he did have a little knife on his belt, and his hand was straying to it. Old Isfridder threw up his hands. ‘Fine,’ he whispered. ‘Eight it is. My mistake.’
‘Good man,’ beamed Forluss, sitting back down with a heavy grunt. He swigged some more of his brimlugger. ‘Now what have the rest of you got?’
Isfridder sighed as he put down his cards. ‘A four and a measly copper-gate.’
‘Dragon-tooth and a two.’
‘A pair of sixes, and the silver jester.’
‘Psh. Fools, lot of yer. I got a gold raven, a silver king, and a three-nail.’
Forluss stared daggers at the last man who had spoken. He was obviously new to this game; everybody knew you always let Forluss win. But the young man stood his ground. ‘I win,’ he cackled, cupping his hands around the silver and copper pile in the centre of the table. The others looked on, some smirking, others ashen.
Forluss watched for a moment, before cracking a wide smile and laughing. ‘Well, Dern, you did well. Now, as you won, it’s your round, ain’t it?’
Dern looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but Forluss beat him to it. ‘Women!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. A pair of young women, mere girls to be exact, appeared from behind the thick red curtain that gave the room its privacy. They were wearing short dresses, and cheap copper jewellery around their necks and arms. They curtseyed to the men around the table, trying not to wrinkle their noses at the feeling of hungry eyes roving over their bodies. They smiled tightly. Forluss beckoned to the nearest, a tall girl with jet-black hair, with a single finger. ‘Come here then,’ he grinned. She smiled wider, hiding the disgust perfectly, and went to stand near him. Forluss wrapped a fat arm around her waist and pointed at each of the men. ‘We’ll ‘ave fresh bottles of ‘lugger all ‘round. And a round of pig ribs too. And some of those little fried potatoes your cook does. A bowl for each. That’s right, ain’t it Dern?’
Dern opened his mouth as if he were about to complain. Forluss drummed his nails on the tabletop. Daring him…
‘Course,’ Dern sighed, as he shoved a good chunk of his coin-pile towards the edge of the table. ‘Little potato things. Why not.’ The second girl, a short little thing with a shock of red hair and freckles, quickly scooped it into her apron. The other men sniggered as they looked on. The two girls curtseyed again and managed to escape without too much groping this time. Leaving the men to go back to their cards, they ducked behind the curtain and shook their heads.
‘Gods, he’s disgusting,’ shuddered the red-haired girl, as she fetched five bottles of the green-hued brimlugger from a cupboard. The noisy hubbub of the tavern below kept their voices quiet. A skald was halfway through a lively ballad, and half of the patrons were dancing. The black-haired girl peeked over a balcony. There was a look of longing on her face.
‘We’re bein’ punished, I tell you. Hassfold is punishing us for something, making us look after that fat lump and his crowd.’
‘Company, I guess. He’s an old guard ain’t he?’
While her friend watched the dancing below, the red-head inked a series of scratches on a little scrap of parchment and folded it into a wooden tube. She slipped the tube inside the mouth of a nearby copper pipe and let it fall. There was a bang from far below, and a muffled voice shouted back up the tube.
‘Thank yer kindly!’ it called, dripping with metallic sarcasm.
The black-haired girl waited for a man in a red cloak to pass by before she went to stand with her friend. She leant up against the cupboard and shivered. ‘His hands are like sweaty hams.’
‘Well, he doesn’t seem to fancy me. Just you.’
‘Oh, joy.’
‘I’m just prayin’ Hassfold doesn’t ask us to do anything else. You ‘eard about Sall?’
Another shiver. ‘I just wish he’d go someplace else.’
The man in the red cloak, who had paused near the balcony railing, stepped into their conversation. The two girls looked at him, wrinkling their lips slightly at the sight of his straggly black beard and his pale, thin face. He was dripping wet with rain, and there was a hole in his hood. ‘Maybe I can help you out?’ he muttered in a low voice.
‘Help us with what?’ asked the red-head, putting her hands on her hips.
The man nodded towards the curtain. ‘There’s a man in there they call Fat Forluss, am I right?’
‘Yeah,’ chorused the girls. ‘Though try calling him that to his face.’
‘I couldn’t help but hear you want him to leave?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, I can make that happen. For good.’
The red-head narrowed her eyes. ‘You a friend of his?’
‘A long-lost acquaintance,’ Farden smirked.
She looked dubious, but her friend stepped forward. ‘Go on.’
The man lifted a little vial of brown-black liquid from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘I’ve heard that this stuff can clear a room quicker than you can say skald. Drip some on him, and he’ll be forced to leave. Make sure he goes out the back door, into the alley.’
‘Why?’
The man turned away. ‘Never you mind about that. If you don’t want him to come back, don’t ask questions. Deal?’ There was a hesitant pause. ‘He won’t be back. I promise.’
The two girls swapped glances. The dark-haired one looked eager. The red-head wasn’t so sure. ‘It’s your fault if Hassfold catches us,’ she wagged a finger.
‘He won’t!’ When she turned back to man, he had gone, leaving nothing but the little vial on the edge of the cupboard. ‘Deal it is,’ she muttered. She lifted the vial to her nose and gingerly cracked it open. She almost wilted under the stench that punched her nostrils. ‘That’ll bloody do it,’ she wheezed, coughing and spluttering.
‘Fine,’ sighed the red-head. ‘I’ll take the drinks, and you put that stuff on him.’
It was a moment’s work to slip the bottles onto a tray. One following the other, the girls pushed the curtain aside and walked back into the room. Forluss turned around to wink at them. ‘There they are,’ he said, beckoning to the dark-haired one once again. She smiled, and went to stand by him, even going as far to put her arm around his thick, sweaty neck. Forluss seemed to like that; his hand began to sneak up the front of her dress. While he was busy, she leant forward and with a quick and deft dab of her hand, she dripped half the vial down Forluss’ back, between his tunic and the coat folded over his chair. The girl had to cover her mouth to keep from retching.
‘My gods,’ she wheezed, quickly making her exit.
‘Oi! Where you goin’?’ Forluss cried, as the red-head swiftly followed suit, covering her nose with her tray. ‘Women!’ he spat.
It didn’t take long for it to hit them.
‘Jötun’s balls! What’s that reek?!’ coughed Dern, being the closest. He got up as quickly as he could and backed away from the table. The others did the same. Unfortunately for them, there were no windows in the little room. Forluss stayed put, confused, beginning to gag.
Isfridder had clamped his sleeve over his mouth. ‘You shat yourself again, Forluss?’ he challenged.
‘You want to watch yer mouth, old man…’ Forluss began, mouth flapping.
‘It’s not any of us!’ yelled one of the men. He looked to be on the verge of vomiting. He left the room in a hurry, along with Dern and the others close in tow. Isfridder got up and gingerly edged around the table, trying to keep as far away from Forluss as possible.
‘By the gods, man, that’s vile!’ he cried.
Forluss had gone a bright shade of crimson. Had he shat himself? He didn’t remember… Gods, it truly was vile. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and tried to cover his nose with his coat, but it made the smell even worse. In a panic he burst through the curtain, half-ripping it from its rickety pole and making the two girls shriek in the process. They scampered off down the balcony and ran down the steps to find Hassfold.
Forluss was utterly bamboozled. A couple stood by the railing. Was it him? Was it something in the room? He tried to paste an innocent look on his face as he slowly made for the stairs, a confused look on his face. The couple caught one breath of him and immediately began to gag. ‘It’s not me!’ he bellowed, breaking into a stumbling jog. The brimlugger had gone straight to his legs.
Hassfold, the landlord, was standing at the bottom of the stairs. The smell was beginning to spread, and he already had a damp cloth firmly clamped over his nose. He pointed at Forluss. ‘You! Get out!’ he shouted.
Forluss could do nothing but glare as he floundered on the bottom step. The skald’s song was coming to a grinding halt. People were either staring or leaving. A woman had fainted. ‘Don’t you go shoutin’ at me, Hassfold. It ain’t my smell!’
‘Gods, you reek, Forluss! It ain’t anybody else but you! You need to leave!’ Hassfold literally sagged as the man brushed past him.
‘Out the back!’ a female voice shouted, one of the girls no doubt.
‘Yeah, send him out the back!’ shrieked another. ‘There’s people here!’
The crowd soon joined in. Red-faced and fuming, Forluss pushed his way through a set of stiff doors and into a storeroom. The shouts chased him. He found a door and barrelled into it, finding himself in an alleyway, and the cold night rain on his sweat-licked head. The door quickly slammed behind him. Somebody locked it. Forluss scratched his head, bewildered, and began to try to wash his clothes in the rain. Even he had to keep from gagging, and he had smelled things in the torture chamber no man should ever smell.
As he bent for a puddle, a blade slipped under his chin and an iron hand seized him by his hair. Forluss didn’t even dare to gulp. ‘Move, and I’ll gut you,’ uttered a bitter voice. A voice from the grave.
‘Farden,’ the name was a cold whisper on Forluss’ alcohol-swollen tongue. The blade was cold, colder than the rain drumming on their shoulders and the gravel under their boots. The alley was dark, light-starved, like the throat of a yawning monster. Forluss could feel hot breath on his ear.
‘The very same.’
‘But you’re dead…’
‘Then you can call me a ghost.’ The blade tickled the lump forming in Forluss’ throat. The man took a few short breaths, trying to figure out what to do or say. All the while, all he could smell was his reek filling his nose.
‘W… what do you want of me?’ he stammered.
Farden tugged his hair a little harder. ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Forluss, I want your head on a pole, along with the others. In a nice line, I think. You first, then Kint, then that Loffrey fellow, and then Kiltyrin last. It will look nice outside my shack. You remember it, don’t you?’
Forluss nodded, immediately regretting it as the keen blade dug into his neck.
‘Good,’ growled Farden. ‘But on second thoughts, Forluss, you fat lump, perhaps if you did me a favour I might be willing to
spare your miserable life…’
Forluss would have dropped to his knees in an instant if it weren’t for the blade. ‘Anything!’ he yelled. Behind every bully was a coward, and Forluss was no different.
‘Keep your voice down!’ Farden hissed.
Forluss clapped his rain and sweat-soaked palms together. ‘Anything, Farden. Anything you ask. Just don’t kill me!’ he wheezed.
‘Good,’ Farden whispered. Further down the alley, somewhere in the darkness, a window closed with a thud. The mage pointed to a nearby puddle with his knife. As the sky rumbled overhead, he kicked out Forluss’ knees and pushed him to the ground. ‘Wash that stink off you first. Then we’ll see what you can do.’
Forluss gibbered to himself as he crawled forward and into the puddle. Had the downpour from the stony sky above not churned the surface of the mud-laced little puddle, Forluss might have spied his true self in its reflection. He dipped his hands into the water, and began to wash.
Behind him, Farden took a length of rope from a pouch on his belt. His revenge was close. He could almost taste its bitter-sweetness in his mouth. Copperish. Metallic. A lot like blood.
Castle Tayn was a shard puncturing the stormy sky. Night had truly fallen on Tayn. The worst of the rumbling storm had died away but the rain had stayed behind to bludgeon its streets and roof-tiles and chimneys and parapets. Everybody but the guards had retreated inside for the evening. Such weather was for fools.
Two figures sloshed up the steep steps towards the castle’s mouth. The rain had made a tiny waterfall of the steps and the going was treacherous. Once or twice, the figure in front stumbled, and was shoved upright by the one behind. Puddles of yellow light lit their way. All the torches had been drowned. Only a precious number of lanterns had been spared to light the way. The rain pounded musically on their little tin roofs, pawing at the candles inside. The two kept climbing.
Before long, they came to the first gate of the castle and were immediately challenged by a trio of guards standing under its wooden roof. Spears were lowered.
